


The New Bombshells

by ThePlotNinja



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst-sex, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feelings, Loss of Virginity, Passionate, Porn With Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Threats of Violence, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 13:57:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3413234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePlotNinja/pseuds/ThePlotNinja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rosaline is a straight-shooting working girl in the 1920's, just trying to make her honest living in the crime-ridden city. But when a well-known local businessman starts appearing at the brothel, work life gets just that touch more interesting...<br/>Set after season 1.</p><p> </p><p>WARNING: This is a story about a young prostitute and a heart-broken gangster. There will be explicitness, violence, and various other trigger-worthy events (I will tag as I go), so just... Know yourself, and think whether this story is for you before beginning. I love my readers, I don't want them psychologically scarred.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A story for one of my new favourite series. I thought it would be interesting to study Thomas' character from an outsider's perspective, so here we are. I have a good idea of where this story is going, but as ever, if you'd like to encourage me on my way with comments, criticisms and kudos, it certainly does pave the way for a quicker turnover of chapters. Also, at the moment it's a relatively short plot line, so ideas are most definitely welcome.  
> Also, it does get VERY explicit from next chapter on, so just be warned.  
> I look forward to journeying this with you!
> 
> With love,  
> -The Plot Ninja

 

 

 

Whoring isn't a noble profession.

The oldest profession on earth, they say. One where women can take control of their earnings; it’s big business, it’s a staple of a city. But noble, it’s not.

Dangerous, sometimes, too.

Sometimes, for example, clients come in drunk. Sozzled out of their brains, slurring their profanities, and randy as fuck. Some have guns. It’s a rough neighbourhood. One of the boys at the front turns away the worst of them, thank Christ, and guns are confiscated pretty quick sharp before anyone gets anything from anyone, but there’s plenty a burly drunk can do without a gun. When the amber from their glass has turned into red behind their eyes, and they realise they’re not in the bed they want to be in, they deal with the lonely with their hands, turn into craftsmen. I saw what one created from his lonely on the face of Margarette last week; his fists had painted colours onto her cheekbones like brushes, not delicate but there was no denying the passion in his art.

It’s a risk you take when you work with the broken.

Dangerous sometimes, too, when a limping man with kind eyes asks you for a night. The sweet boys, the kind and caring boys that should have been picking roses for girls and blushing with a stolen kiss to their cheek, they were taken by the flashing light of the guns. The grenades found their trenches, the bullets found their limbs and they find themselves here, grown men, begging for love that they may never get; they had no practise with roses and candlelight. And these men, they are the ones deserving of love, but these men are killers, and for all the softness in their eyes in one second, all the loving in the world can’t save them from the ugly they brought home, and so in unpredictable fashion they swing from puppy love to gunfire clink, and you have to be careful.

But business goes on anyway. It’s a booming business, and we deal with the danger like we deal with the minutes on the clock: one at a time, survive the day.

So when time stops at the House, I know that this danger is something all of its own.

 

A man walks in. As men are wont to do.

He is striking. Tall, and thin as a shadow, with sunken eyes of a murky blue peering out from a peaked cap. Handsome, perhaps, but gaunt as a skeleton. He resembles a marionette, I thought at first glance, but when he walks further there is no sign of puppet in his step. More like a lord. A king. His clothes attest to his position; such a smart suit I have never seen in this district before. Each step he takes hushes the pub’s babble a tone more, until every eye is on him and only murmurs remain. Not even the clocks dare tick. A couple of men, I notice, have sidled out the door, leaving their paid-for goods to find another man to seduce.

He stops before the House’s landlady, and time starts up again, with somewhat renewed vigour. It seems no one wants to appear to be eavesdropping.

‘’E’s a Shelby,’ Agatha whispers to me as if that should mean something.

‘Indeed?’ I reply, unsure what I should say to that.

She turns and gapes at me. ‘Rosy! Maybe you ‘aven’t grown up ‘round ‘ere, but that’s one name you gotta know!’

I vaguely remember the name, it’s been spoken around before, but as I run eyes over Mr. Shelby I cannot think why. He’s certainly no regular I’ve seen.

‘’E’s a Peaky Blinder.’

Comprehension dawns. Now that’s one name no one is likely to mistake. Of course; Shelby means top dog, means big money. Means dangerous.

I should look away, but I’ve always been curious. Peaky Blinders... I run my eyes over the rim of his peaked cap, trying to see the glint of a razor hidden there.

Instead I find his eyes, and they almost blind me instead.

His expression is unreadable, his piercing eyes unbearable, and I look away as soon as I start to hear my own heartbeat in my ears. When I look back, his gaze is away from me.

Agatha pulls me around. ‘You daft?’ she hisses. ‘Peaky Blinder! Means ain’t no one want to mess wit’ ‘im, and yet ‘ere you are making a staring match out of it. You’re gonna catch ‘is attention if you’re not careful!’

‘Rosaline?’

I look around at the pretty young brunette. ‘Yes Beth?’

‘You, I and Dotty have been summoned.’ The tremor in her voice is unmistakable, and she turns around and leaves without waiting.

I feel a _whack_ on my shoulder. ‘I told ya, I did,’ Agatha mumbles. She twists me around to face her, straightening the lace of my dress and rearranging my blonde hair for me so it falls right. ‘Just... try not get picked, would ya?’ she tells me, her voice soft. ‘Play it straight, don’ go bein’ over-flirty or over-coy, just...’

Silence between us for a moment, then I take her hand and promise, ‘I’ll be fine, Aggie. You look after yourself too, alright?’

She agrees, and so I leave her to continue foraging in the now somewhat-depleted forest of men. I head up the stairs to the private suite reserved for the most Important of our Very Importants, assuming correctly that’s where they’d be. Dotty and Beth are still waiting outside the door so we might enter together; by this point Beth is most vibrating with nerves, her beaded jewellery jangling with her. Dotty is trying her best to calm her, but the time is through; we cannot leave our guest waiting any longer.

‘Ah, here they are. Beautiful, are they not?’ Madam Peony gushes as we walk in. ‘We are a fine establishment, sir, and accept only the finest girls...’

‘You.’

A long pale finger points at Beth.

She inhales. ‘Yes, sir?’ she squeaks.

‘Leave.’

Beth seems frozen for a second; it’s not the command she expected. She bobs her head in a short bow-curtsy, and all but flees from the room.

There’s a quick, awkward pause before we remember ourselves; but Dotty and I strike our poses as if nothing had happened. ‘What do you like, sir?’ Dotty asks seductively.

His eyes dart over her quickly, but then I feel them scouring me, thoroughly and to the bone. ‘Turn,’ he directs me.

I do so slowly, showing off my short dress, flicking my shoulder-length hair a little as I whirl my head around to keep my eyes fixed on his, peering at him over my shoulder. I allow the spaghetti strap to slip a little as I make the last half of the turn, exposing my collar bone a little. I finish by posing back the way I had been. ‘What do you think?’

That may have been flirty. Then again, saying nothing would have appeared uninterested, and with Madam Peony in the room I have to watch myself a little.

 Mr Shelby still doesn’t respond to the question, but instead puts out his cigar and then slowly, purposefully rises from his spot. His poker-face is still set hard, but there’s a little furrow between his brows creating an expression I can’t quite place. He seems to consider every step as he makes his way to me, stopping with only inches between us. I drop my pose, feeling silly now; feeling a little overwhelmed and out of my depth, looking up to this man who towers over me. People come to this establishment to be loved or to gain back some control, when they’re already losing grip of the reigns. I get the feeling this is one man who has never fallen from a horse.

‘I’ll take her.’

He isn’t talking about me.

He steps off, taking Dotty’s hand in his own and kissing it gently. ‘If you’ll have me, that is,’ he tells her, a pretense of gentlemanly suaveness as he brings her towards him, making her giggle. ‘Thank you, Madam, for the excellent selection.’

I blink, uncertain of what has just happened.

‘Of course, Mr Shelby. If you require anything, there is a bell, but I am sure our Dorothy is well able to tend to your _every_ need.’ With that, Madam Peony puts one hand on the middle of my back and ushers me out of the room, closing the door behind us with a gentle _click_.

I stand in shock. Men have different preferences, of course, and in a job like this you get used to being passed over by one man because the next will gladly take you up; and I had been hoping not to be picked the entire time anyway. I should be relieved. Should be glad I made it out of the room with my life, glad that I won't be fucking a gangster tonight. But somehow, being inspected so thoroughly and deliberately made the rejection hit harder. I try to settle myself, but the breath is hard to pull in.

‘He’s overwhelming, isn’t he?’

I nod as the brothel mistress squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. ‘I just thought...’ No. I shake my head. Overwhelming is a good word for him. ‘Sorry.’

‘Take a short break. Fifteen minutes, get your head back in order, alright?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ I would be lucky if I could shake off the sensation of the Blinder’s stare in fifteen minutes, but I would certainly do my best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop me a line and make my day :)  
> -The Plot Ninja


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit sex, but not the stuff you're hoping for.  
> I could have gone two routes with the chapter: either the extended sex version, or the Hollywood fade-out implied sex version. There is no Hollywood here. I want the reality and the grime. So, just in case you're wondering, the rest of the story will also take the grimy version wherever possible, too.  
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Sincerely yours,  
> -The Plot Ninja

Whores gossip. It’s a given.

Early in the eve the next day, when we are all painted up and sitting ready but with only the couple of regular afternoon clients still around, being entertained by the few girls on day shift, we gossip while we wait for the post-two-drink rush. It’s cathartic, relaxing, and even helpful – our patrons aren’t always forthcoming with what they really want, and so it saves time and increases our tips if their preferences are already known. We mark out if there’s a returning target that is now part of our own list of regulars, or if one is really better suited to another girl, or even if no one wants one at all. That’s when the law of pass-the-parcel is applied, and the lead and paper comes out; for an “uneducated” profession, we can be quite well-organised where it matters. There are four, at the moment, on the list. One of them is on my schedule for tomorrow, Heavens help me, but for tonight I’m in the clear.

And I get to hear about Mr Shelby. ‘So he was gentle, then?’

‘’m as surprised as you, hun,’ Dotty reports, sipping her whisky thoughtfully. ‘Dunno, gentle’s the wrong word, prob’ly... Restrained, I s’pose. He was enjoyin’ it, but not enthusiastic-like. He touched me, gentle, and I touched him, wouldn’t let me kiss him though. So I got on and rode him, and that was... Good...’

Pauline and I exchange grins. ‘Must have been pretty good, giving you that reaction,’ Pauline smirks.

‘You have no idea, hun,’ Dotty laughs back. ‘’N then that got him proper excited, so I thought, right, let’s go for the kiss or the dirty whisper or somethin’, and leaned in, but he wasn’t havin’ none of it. Flipped us over. Went to town on it, alright, but eyes closed the whole time. Enough to hurt a girlie’s feelings, I must say!’

‘You’re beautiful, Dot,’ I remind her lightly. ‘And you know it, too.’

Dotty pretends to consider. ‘Yeah, I do.’

We burst out laughing, trying to cover it as Madam Peony passes, scowling.

‘So what happened then?’ asks Pauline.

 ‘Well I tried to touch him, grip his hair or somethin’, but he wasn’ havin’ it. Pinned my hands down, finished up, got up and got dressed. Just like that. Like, this bloke’s runnin’ on electricity, prob’ly, coz there was no afterglow, no cuddlin’, nothin’ – just relieve the itch, and then on his way!’

‘Huh,’ I say. ‘But that’s what they’re usually really here for, though, is the attention after.’

Dotty shrugs. ‘Not this one. As if he’s allergic to sentiment... Paid well, though.’ She grins. ‘I could fuck more gangsters if that’s the usual pay rate!’

‘I think you were pretty much top-rung there, Dotty,’ Pauline says. ‘You know how there’s three Shelby brothers? Can’t be certain, but pretty sure that was the in-charge one. Don’t know his name, but just by description I’d say it was him.’

‘That’s... a little scary, I must say,’ I comment. ‘Beth was terrified!’

Pauline shrugs. ‘Makes sense. Beth’s brother owns a little tavern over the way. And it’s not doin’ too good, even after a Blinder’s loan...’ She looks at me meaningfully.

My eyes widen. ‘Dotty, be careful, won’t you? Keep it professional. Getting mixed up with him could be dangerous.’

Dotty blows this comment off with a laugh. ‘Danger is our middle name, remember? He was fine.’ She takes a sip, then looks over her whiskey glass at me thoughtfully. ‘I coulda swore he was gonna pick you though, hun. The way he was lookin’ at you...’

I smile and shrug it off. ‘Men. They’re fickle creatures.’

‘Well-payin’ fickle creatures,’ she adds with a wink. The doors swing open and in pour the first batch of young men, two drinks in and just tipped enough to cajole one another into thinking this is a good idea. Dotty observes them and then stands, raising her glass. ‘To fickle creatures.’

‘To fickle creatures,’ Pauline and I rejoin, clinking glasses before standing too. Time to go fishing.

 

Mr Shelby becomes a regular. Twice a week, Monday and Thursday like clockwork.

I can’t help but notice that a couple of our other regulars have become less regular in their appearances. Coincidence, probably not.

He’s never “on work” when he comes, though. He enters through the door, stops time just like the first visit, then he takes a drink in one hand, puts Dotty onto his other arm like a true man of class, and disappears to the room for an hour or so. I am usually busy with clients, but occasionally I catch his glance as he looks the bar lounge room over, and the blue eyes haunt me for the rest of the night.

I haven’t seen him tonight, though. I’m first working with young Walt Harris tonight – a plain, thin and lanky boy who came in with friends a few years his senior. ‘Eighteen today, sweetheart,’ one of his friends told me, leaning in close and slipping some money into the strap of my dress – a cheeky move when I still had my fur shawl around my shoulders, the saucy bugger. ‘If you’d make it somethin’ of a special one for him...’ He gave the least subtle wink possible.

 ‘I’m sure we can work something out,’ I replied, sizing up the youth with his sweating palms and nervous glances. I smile at him seductively, enjoying the slack-jawed look I was given in return. ‘But first, a toast!’

Three toasts later, and here we are in the room, the naked young man relaxed from alcohol and his first hand job, and I sit there in my silk camisole and stockings and let him cautiously explore. He spends a lot of time kissing down my neck, before he becomes brave and reaches for the hem of the silk garment. I help him lift it over my head, then guide his hands to my breasts. A look of awe crosses his face as he fondles them, and then, with a quick look to gauge my reaction, he leans forward and takes one in his mouth.

I smile at his initiative, and tilt back my head and moan to reward him. His excitement is evident, pressed hard up against my outer thigh, and reaching down to stroke him is like stoking a fire, increasing his enthusiasm further still.

It’s time, I decide, standing to slip off my stockings and knickers.

And just like that, he’s back to being a marble statue.

‘It’s alright, Walt, it’s alright,’ I soothe him, taking his jittery hand in mine and rubbing the back with my thumb, which seems to calm him. We sit like that for a few minutes, one of his hands in mine and the other exploring my breast and stomach again, before I look at him seriously. ‘I have to ask you something.’

His eyes grow large. ‘I done somethin’ wrong? I ain’t got the clap, I swear it!’

I breathe out a laugh. ‘No, honey, I doubt you do. You’ve done nothing wrong, don’t fret.’ Poor boy – his expression is all but stricken! ‘What I want to ask you is: do you really want this?’

First a flit of bewilderment, and then defensiveness, crosses his face. ‘O’ course!’ he protests forcefully, but I hush him a moment.

‘No, Walt, I want you to think about this for a moment. I know your friends want what’s best for you, and they pushed you here, but only you know what you really want.’

He looks confused. I explain further. ‘You only get one first time. If you want that to be with someone you fall in love with, you don’t have to lose it now. That’s part of being a man – not the sex, but making your own choices. We can stay here a while if you want, just talk or kiss, and you can go out and tell your friends you did it anyway. It’s your choice. I’m good with secrets, I promise I won’t tell.’

To his credit, he does take time to think it over. He stares into the floorboards a minute or two as he weighs up the choice; but when it comes down to it, a horny teenager with a naked, willing woman only really has one choice. He looks back at me, certainty in his eyes, and he reaches up to stroke a strand of my hair. ‘I want this. ’M sure.’

It was the obvious answer. I smile, and then drop my voice as seductive as I can. ‘Well then. If you’re sure.’

We push ourselves up onto the bed and I take his hand, guide it slowly down my neck and over a breast, down my stomach and over the patch of trimmed hair, until we reach my nethers. With my other hand, I spread myself open for him and guide his finger over my clitoris. ‘If you touch here, you can make your lady feel really good. And this is the vagina; that’s where your snake will go in a minute.’ I grin wickedly, then watch his face as I slide his finger into the warm cavern, seeing his thoughts as though he had them written on his forehead – first astonishment that this was the wonder all women kept hidden between their legs, then realisation of exactly _what_ this wonder was going to feel like. I let go of his hand, about to climb atop him, but he decides that he wants to be bold, and slides his finger in again by himself. He looks at my face to check my reaction to this; I let out a soft sigh, so he does it again.

Checking the clock surreptitiously, I see we still have plenty of time, so I lean back onto my elbows and let him play a little. He continues to pump a finger in and out of me, but, failing to illicit the same response, he removes it and instead swipes over my bud. This time, the reaction is genuine, and I shudder. Looking down at him, I see him realise he’s on the right track, and he starts rubbing slowly, watching my face for every flit.

Sure, my job is to have sex. But it has been so long since anyone really tried to pleasure me like this – apart from myself, naturally – so I’m surprisingly sensitive to his touches. He speeds up, and I let out a high-pitched “ah!”.

He’s rubbing entirely dry, though, so when he gets a determined look on his face and starts to rub a little too hard I reach down and stop the painful pressing, trying to turn the motion into a sexy ‘come hither’ to entice him onto his back. I climb on top of him, and, sweeping my hair to one side, I ask him, ‘Ready?’

Walt nods, mouth open and panting as he tries to control himself. I lower onto him.

It really doesn’t take long, the culmination of the foreplay, his youth and his inexperience. After riding him for maybe a minute or two I see his eyes start to roll back, and so I squeeze my muscles and ride faster until he ejaculates into me, panting and moaning. I ease off of him, sliding down to lie next to him. He accepts me into his arms, and we lie silent like that for a while. Peaceful, dozy.

‘Tha’ was...’ It seems he can’t find the words, so he finishes the sentence with a well-satisfied sigh.

I reach up and stroke away some of his hair plastered to his forehead. ‘Good.’

He looks down at me. ‘Was tha’...’ A pause. ‘... For you?’

A poet’s life is undoubtedly this lad’s destiny. ‘It was marvellous,’ I purr to him.

He nods once, solemnly. ‘Tha’s... good.’

I let out a laugh, pulling myself up so my chin rests on the backs of my hands, which rest on his chest. ‘Lighten up, Walt! You just lost your virginity! You’re a man now!’

It is an easy lie, but one that spreads a smile across his face. ‘Yeah,’ says the boy, grinning. ‘Yeah I am.’

 

Once I’ve tidied myself up a little, I lead Walt back to the stairs by the hand. His friends notice him coming out, and start to whistle and cheer at him. One last favour, I decide; I slide my hand up to his cheek, and with all the showmanship I can muster, I pull him into a deep, passionate kiss that makes his friends hoot. I release him from the kiss, and stand on my toes to whisper into his ear, ‘You be good now, Walt.’ And I left him dazed on the landing.

There are some parts of the job I really enjoy.

And then there’s the part that comes next. I hum as I walk down the corridor, tuning out the sexual sounds from behind wooden doors to either side of me, back towards the room I had occupied. I have to strip and remake the bed, and spray the room with perfume to get rid of the smell of sex; some places don’t bother with these steps, but that’s why I much prefer to work at the House. Then a mere five minute break to clean myself up, and back on the job again – no rest for the wicked, or so they say.

It’s him.

My breath turns solid in my throat as I nearly walk straight into the most dangerous man in the city, emerging from a room with his overcoat slung over his arm. I know I should try to apologise, but the lead in my voice box won’t let me. I stutter, mere noise, then fall silent.

But as Mr Shelby’s grey-blue eyes meet mine, it’s not anger that radiates from him; instead, I see his expression morph from surprise to pain and shame and something unreadable, a blush forming on his pale cheeks.

He nods his head at me brusquely. ‘Good evening.’

And then he’s striding past, donning his hat so he can obscure his face, but I can see that his eyes are on the ground. He doesn’t look back.

 

Now I’m the dazed one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kittens, cookies and comments give me the warm fuzzies on the insides!  
> Much love,  
> -The Plot Ninja


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the response I've had to this story, it helped me along like you can't imagine. This part's a bit longer than the others, but I felt it all had to go in together. Let me know what you think, or if you spot any smelling pistakes along the way - I think I've been thorough, but it's hard to tell when it's your own work.  
> I hope you like it!
> 
> Yours truly,  
> -The Plot Ninja

5 in the morning, and finally we close shop. No one comes to see a prostitute before 11 am, unless it’s for a sneaky blow before work, and that’s not worth keeping the House open for.

It’s still dark out, though the horizon is starting to show the first signs of a new grey day. I pass street sweepers and newspaper boys, ignoring their occasional whistles or jibes. It’s not worth it; I’m exhausted, body and mind, and even if I did get angry, what would it accomplish? They would never learn. I have pride. I do my job well, and I’m a free woman because of it, so I feel no shame at their insults.

Or so I tell myself, at least.

The newspaper vendor is just beginning to build up his stall, hammering a wooden support beam into place with another. He spots me. ‘Mornin’, Miss Rosaline.’

‘Morning, Mr Heaps.’ He doesn’t approve of me. His ever-wrinkled nose tells me so. ‘Could I get some ciggies and a paper?’

The old man heaves a sigh, putting down the plank. ‘Tenner or twenty?’ He begins to rifle through the unsorted boxes around him.

I check my pocket for change. ‘Just the tenners, thank you.’ I watch as he flicks open a pocket knife and cuts off the cord holding the papers together. ‘Anything interesting in there today?’

‘Usual shite,’ he shrugs. ‘Ain’t nothin’ much what changes round ‘ere, believe me darl.’

I hand over the coins and take my items, reading the news headline out loud. ‘“Three shot dead in gang-related incident”?!’

Mr Heaps shrugs again, picking up the wooden support once more and turning back to his work. ‘Like I said, ain’t nothin’ what changes.’

I thank him and continue on my way down the dirty streets, making a couple of turns through alleyways. Here you have to be careful; I’ve had luck so far, but most everyone living here has a story about these places. Eyes open, ears open, and trust your instincts. Though, at such an early hour, I doubt anyone’s awake that doesn’t have to be.

I let myself into my apartment building, scaling the three floors of narrow stairs with deliberate, aching movements. My flat is more box than house, but it’s got all I need in it. A tiny kitchenette and table in one room, a bed and dresser in the other, and shared toilet and bathroom down the hall; it’s functional. I make myself tea.

It’s 6 o’ clock by the time I’m washed and in a nightgown, so I go sit on the side of my bed. The sheets are moving up and down in a slow, rhythmic breathing pattern.

I peel the sheets back slowly, revealing a young woman in her mid-twenties, brown hair in rollers and with her face relaxed into a look of total serenity. Her deep breathing makes me feel relaxed just by being near it. She’s beautiful. I can’t help but to sit there a few moments, observing the complete peace and trust that sleep put over her features.

Six o’ clock, though, means an end to that peace. I lean to reach her shoulder. ‘Fay. Wake up now, hun.’

She scrunches her face in protest and tries to roll over, making me chuckle. ‘Fay, honey, it’s six. You have to wake up.’

Her eyes open blearily, and she blinks several times before they focus on me. ‘Whaaa’?’ is her response. Then she heaves a sigh. ‘I don’t wanna,’ she mumbles, then turns her back on me.

I get up and walk around the other side of the bed. ‘It’s my turn to sleep,’ I tell her seriously. ‘Gotta say, I don’t particularly care if you’re still in here.’ Then with a grin, I lift the covers and jump in too, revelling in the warmth her sleeping body has lent the blankets.

Cold feet meet warm legs, and she screeches. ‘Ah! Fine, I’m awake, I’m awake! Gosh, you’re like ice.’ She turns over to face me, still nestled deep in the duvet, and rubs her eye with motions still clumsy from sleep. ‘Good shift?’

‘Was alright. Nothing dramatic, which is always nice.’

‘Mm,’ she hums back. ‘Any marriage offers?’

‘Not tonight.’ I shift around a little, plumping the pillow under my head. ‘How was yours?’

‘S’the same as ever. Norma’s pregnant.’

‘Huh.’ I scrunch my eyebrows. ‘Is Norma the newly-wed one?’

She snorts. ‘No, Norma’s the self-righteous, saving-herself-for-marriage one.’

‘Right.’ I don’t even feel bad for laughing; I’ve heard all about this cow before.

Fay smiles lazily too, then seems to consider. ‘You know, that means there’ll be a job going, if you want it. I could put in a good word?’

I give her a look. ‘Can you really see me bussing tables?’

‘Yeah, why not? You’re patient, you’ve got a good memory, and you’re good with people...’

I bark a laugh.

‘It’s true! You think you’re all hardened from life, but honestly, you’ve such a sweet face, and an innocent air. You’d get tips from everyone.’

‘Already do,’ I chuckle, but I stop when I realise the joke has gone right over her sweet head. ‘It’s kind of you, Fay, but I enjoy my job. I’m good at it, it makes me good money, and I get freedom to do and say what I want.’ She’s not convinced, and her face is far too serious for my liking. ‘Besides, if I did take it up, we’d have to stop this little arrangement. Speaking of, get up! It’s my turn to sleep, and you’re going to be late.’ I put my cold feet on her legs again.

‘Eek!’ she squeals, scrambling out of bed. She makes a scowling face at me, then begins getting ready.

There is nothing so satisfying in life as lying warm in bed while someone else has to start their day. I watch dozily as the lithe young woman pulls off her nightgown, dresses, pulls out her hair rollers, and pins and sprays her hair into perfection.

‘Fags are on the table,’ I tell her when she’s finished, getting a heartfelt ‘You are too good to me’ in return. Then she’s out the door.

A second later she’s back again, peering around the door frame at me. ‘You will at least think about it, won’t you?’

I breathe in a deep sigh, then give her a lying nod.

Satisfied she’s done her best, she leaves me in peace, and I, finally, bury myself in the pre-warmed sheets, close my eyes, and let myself drift into sleep.

 

 

I don’t remember what I dream about. It’s confusing, emotions as colours and people as moths and I’m lost in this swirling black fear, indigo confusion, grey uncertainty, and the smallest, tiniest possible spiraling streak of a hint of something blue.

 

 

A loud _bang!_ pulls me out of sleep, and I scramble upright, the bedclothes piling to the floor around my feet. I rake my eyes over the flat, fumbling for the gas lamp. There doesn't seem to be anyone...

And then I hear another bang, loud but equally distant as the first, and I breathe in a calming sigh of relief. Someone probably dropped something off of a truck, or had a car crash; these things happen. No reason to panic.

I sit back down on the bed, pushing sleep from my eyes with my palms. One o’ clock, the little wooden clock on the wall tells me. Seven hours of sleep, then. That’s not too bad. The air in the flat is stale and stuffy, so I open the vent on the wall to let some refreshingly smoggy city air slooge its way in. It’s not much better, but when you live in the city and don’t have a window, you don’t have many options. I dress, look in the mirror to check that I washed all my makeup off, then reapply just the tiniest hint of lipstick. Just because I’m a whore at night, doesn’t mean I want to be called one in the streets during the day.

After a cigarette, I leave the house and walk out onto the street, a shopping basket on my arm. I intend to go to the shops, but as soon as I’m on the pavement I immediately notice the thick, black smoke creeping its way into the sky. Looks bigger than a bonfire, and I can hear sirens coming across the city. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I head in that direction instead.

It’s a fair few blocks away down winding alleys, but after a few minutes of walking I can begin to hear screams. The smoke is even thicker here, and I turn the corner to see a scene of complete and utter chaos. What used to be the storefront to a barber’s shop is now scattered across the entire street for a good 30 feet in all directions, and the shop itself is cratered in and filled with burning rubble.

I jump back as I nearly tread on something still on fire; it’s a bottle of aftershave, leaking flames onto the sidewalk. I skirt around it, careful to keep my petticoat out of the burning liquid, and move towards the shop for a closer look. All around, people are huddling together in groups, most with their hand or a kerchief over their mouth, both in shock and to stop the acrid smoke from getting into their lungs. Some are crying; I recognise Irene, whose family owns the hat store right next to it – she seems to be hysterical in some stranger’s arms, while Martha, her sister, comforts their mother.

Through the smoke I see two dusty figures hauling away a third, unnoticed by the crowd; somehow I can tell they aren’t medics. Without a second thought I’m following them down an alleyway, along a patchwork-paved side street and behind a big warehouse. They’re moving as quickly as they can, but since I’m unencumbered I keep up with them easily.

We seem to reach our destination, because they begin to slow down. I resolve to stay out of sight, an easy decision to come to. There are large bins to my right, close enough to watch and hear what’s going on without being seen, and I hide behind them, ignoring the smell. Now that we’re away from the smoke, I can see the men more clearly. The middle one is the barber, Mr Parkes, slightly singed and barely conscious; if it weren’t for the men on either side, he would be collapsed for sure. As the trio approach the warehouse, the one on the right calls out, and the large loading doors open slowly.

Two more men emerge, dressed in shirts and waistcoats. No jackets, I notice, but both are wearing a grey peaked cap. Same as all but the barber, I suddenly realise; they must be Blinders.

One steps forwards, seemingly more in charge. He has a neat caterpillar moustache sitting atop his lip and a sharp nose bearing over it slightly. His clothes are sharp, with the shirt collar starched stiff and a maroon bowtie smartly in place, but his sleeves are rolled up and his cigar is half-way gone, as though he and the other newcomer were interrupted during their afternoon break.

With a cough, the barber, still suspended by the shoulders, starts to speak. ‘Arthur, please, I...’

‘Shut it, Frank.’

Mr Parkes swallows his words back down again with an audible gulp.

‘Now as I recall, Frank my lad,’ the man named Arthur says to the sobbing man in his mid-forties, ‘I recall we had a certain conversation not a fortnight ago. Wha’ about you, do you recall that?’ He speaks slowly, his vocabulary and accent clashing strangely, a man recently come into power and testing it out like a suit or a new pair of shoes. ‘Certain... particulars come to mind from this conversation. Don’ suppose you’d know to what I refer?’

‘I said I had contacts, ‘n I did!’ Mr Parkes wheezes. ‘S’not my faul’ they dinnit come through!’

‘Course not, Frank, course not. Y’know what was your fault though?’

The man stares up at the calm-faced Blinder, wide-eyed. It’s a trap. He knows it’s a trap. There is no right answer, and the pause hangs in the air for several long moments until he gives into the pressure. ‘Wha’?’

‘LOSING THE FUCKING MONEY!’

Even from so far away, the sudden change in the man’s manner makes me jump backwards. All pretence of serenity is gone now; spittle flies from his mouth without care, and his face turns so red it’s almost purple. The leap from sophisticated young-money to rabid dog took less than an eye’s blink, and I feel my heart racing in fear as he looms over the barber, who scrambles backwards as far as he can before the two men still holding him pull him forwards again. ‘I’ve employed some FUCKING idiots in my time, but YOU take the FUCKING cake!’ On the last curse, Arthur winds up and delivers a fist right into the trapped man’s stomach with an audible _thump_ , making him double over in pain. The two men let him slip to the cobbled ground, though they stay within arm’s range. ‘Now,’ Arthur continues, stretching and balling his fingers casually and walking a few steps away. ‘I’m gonna give you twenty seconds to reinflate your worthless lungs and ponder on your worthlessness, then you’re gonna tell me why I shouldn’ force-feed you a bullet.’

Parkes gasps, not just from pain, I suspect, and then starts pulling in air like he’s just been told the price is going up. Finally he splutters, ‘I’ll get it back! Please, Arthur! Ye’ve taken my home, my shop, isn’ tha’ enough? I’ll find some way, I will, I’ll figure it out, please!’

‘What’s all this, then?’

A new player on the scene.

Mr Shelby.

I clap my hand to my mouth to stop the strangled sound from escaping my throat. I should be running – why aren’t I running? – but somehow I’m glued to the spot, cemented there, watching the drama unfurl in front of me like a film. This is no film. Full-colour, full-flesh humans with fully-loaded guns standing just feet away. I must be suicidal. But my feet are refusing to budge.

Something isn’t right about the gangster, though. It’s hard to tell from here, but his eyes look more sunken, his complexion more gaunt, and his hands seem to be shaking a little. Other than that, though, he seems to be entirely composed. Almost too much so, maybe? I can’t tell.

‘Tommy!’ Arthur welcomes the man warmly. ‘You’ve met Frank.’

‘I believe so, yes.’ Cold blue eyes appraise the barber. ‘Alright, Frank?’

‘’Right, Tommy,’ Mr Parkes gurgles back automatically.

Mock salutations over, Mr Shelby addresses Arthur once more, though his gaze doesn’t leave the downed man. ‘I miss something?’

‘This piece of shit,’ Arthur says almost jovially, ‘took some money for us. Went to some good contacts of his – those importers, y’know – and tried to make some business for us.’

‘Right,’ Shelby replies slowly.

‘They turned him down, weren’ interested. So no business there.’

‘Fine. And?’ The first hint of impatience tinges his voice.

‘So he decided to take the money and put it on a fucking horse.’

At this Mr Parkes cracks. ‘I had a tip-off!’ he yowls, hands outstretched and begging; ‘It was a sure win, I was gonna triple yer money! I’m sorry, please –’

A barrel breaks off his sentence, and he goes cross-eyed looking at it.

‘Well then,’ Mr Shelby says softly. ‘I suppose, if you’re sorry.’ He cocks the gun’s hammer.

‘Tommy, wait.’

Arthur pulls him away, and I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

‘We burnt his shop, he’s insured for gas, we’ll get the money back.’ Mr Parkes’ ears prick up; apparently this is news to him. ‘I was jus’ gonna lecture him on the ways of the world, maybe tenderise his kidneys, but we don’ really need to kill ‘im yet. If he fucks up again, then sure, but...’

Mr Shelby seems to ponder this a moment. Then he turns back to Parkes. ‘You know what I’m sick of, Frank?’ he asks leisurely. ‘What I’ve had enough of for the time being?’

Parkes won’t fall into the trap of speaking again; instead he just shakes his head cautiously.

‘Traitors,’ Shelby snarls, ‘and fools. All I want’s loyal men, is that too much to ask?’ He holds the gun in both hands now, examining it as if judging fine engraving. ‘You lost me money, because you were dumb and greedy, Frank. More dumb and greedy than you were loyal. In my books, that makes you a fool _and_ a traitor.’

A second of silence, then he cocks the gun once more. ‘I have no use for those.’

‘No!’ I exclaim, forgetting myself for a second and jolting forwards. Mr Shelby hears me, and his head jerks up. As soon as our eyes meet, he drops – almost throws – the pistol down as though it were suddenly white-hot in his hands.

I realise my mistake as all heads turn towards me, and without encouragement my feet unstick themselves from where I was rooted and carry me through alleyway after alleyway, making blood pump in my ears and breath come raggedly to my throat. I soon realise I’ve run all the way home; so I sprint up the stairs, lock the door, shove the rickety table against it and plant myself on the floor against a wall.

Fuck, I think. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make the world go around. You'd think it was money, but no, it's comments.  
> With love,  
> -The Plot Ninja


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't have time to write while traveling Europe, I thought. It'll be two months without a single word on paper, I thought.  
> Two ten-hour bus and train rides and a rainy London evening later...  
> This chapter is incredibly long, but since it's only two scenes I was loathe to break it up, so I'm sorry - you're going to have to suffer through a much longer chapter than you expected. My sympathies.  
> Thanks for the lovely comments and the kudos, they are absolutely what drove me to update so soon :) So let me know what you think of this one too!
> 
> With love as always,  
> -The Plot Ninja

I could run, I suppose.

It would cost money – more money than I have – but I could run as far and as fast as I can, maybe disappear into the Big Smoke. Maybe go back north instead. Sure, I’d be broke with nothing to my name, but hey, I’d be alive, for a time.

I get up from the corner of the room when the nervous energy gets to be too much, starting to pace around the little apartment.

Fay would wonder where I’d gone. She’d put out posters, maybe. Talk to the police. She’d think I’d gone to work and been knocked off by one of the clients maybe, or been jumped on the way home. She’d get no help from the police, of course, either because Shelby was paying them off or simply because no one cares about lost little whores when there’s daily shootings and IRA rebels to be dealt with. And she wouldn’t be able to stay here, unless she got someone else in. The rent’s too high for just one person, she’d have to move out within a month.

The girls at the House might wonder too, though frankly they wouldn’t wonder long; girls come and go in this business far too often to make them question it. Aggie would miss me, Dotty too, maybe, but the clocks in the House tick on constantly; they wouldn’t stop just for me.

I throw myself backwards onto the bed, blocking out the light with hands over my eyes. October’s halfway gone though, I realise in despair. If it were any other time of the year, it would be fine; sleeping rough in parks isn’t safe, isn’t comfortable, but it’s fine for a few weeks while you’re sorting yourself out, saving scraps and slivers and cast-offs. The winter months, though, mean snow and sleet, and a chill from a November drizzle could be deadly. It almost definitely makes you sick, too, and no one sleeps with a sniffling whore. My profession deals in desirability and seduction – hard to be sexy while snotting into a handkerchief.

I stare up at the ceiling, the damp wood’s familiar knots staring back. Or maybe he didn’t see me properly? If he didn’t recognise me, I’m not even in danger!

I choke back a wistful laugh at the thought, quashing the ridiculous optimism. Of course, I know he saw me. He knows exactly who I am. I’d be a child to think otherwise. The longer I look up, the longer the wood grain starts to resemble a face, until I have to look away, feeling the intensity of his scorching gaze beaming down at me from the roof.

I could go directly to him, I guess. I palm my eyelids vigorously until stars appear behind them, washing away the stupid imagining, until the face turns back into a ceiling once more. I could beg for my life, swear to silence, maybe. Promise money I don’t have. Offer services I don’t perform. They might shoot me, or they might take me up on the offer. I’d have a higher chance of surviving, I think, though that would depend on the Shelby’s mood, which I probably didn’t help when I interfered with his business.

Or...

Huh. That is a curious thought.

What if I do nothing?

I ponder this, with what feels like a slow, warm fire growing in my gut. There’s no way to say with certainty that I even matter to the great Peaky Blinders. A whore saw them shoot a man, so what? I could report them to the police, but they know I won’t. And if I did, it’d probably land in the lap of a kept man, anyway, and then I’d be just as fucked as if I walked up to Mr Shelby and flipped him off directly. I’ve no proof but myself; and I didn’t even see them do anything, just saw threats and a gun being waved around.

Never in my life have I been so glad of how inconsequential I really am.

If I go to them, I realise, then it doesn’t matter what they had been planning – I’m basically putting my life in their hands, and there’s no way they wouldn’t take advantage of that. I'd be in their pocket for the rest of my life. But if I don't... Well, if they’re planning to kill me, I’ll be dead; if they’re planning to blackmail me, they'll make me give it all; but so long as I stay away from them, there’s a chance I could walk away from this relatively free. Threatened, but free.

Is it worth the risk?

I’m still lying like that when Fay gets home, staring blankly and trying to weigh it all up.

‘Rosy!’ she exclaims, putting down her bag and hat and rushing to me. ‘Are you alright?’

This breaks me out of my restless reverie with a start. ‘I’m fine,’ I reassure her, but her hands are already all over me.

‘Are you staying home sick tonight? You are awfully pale; no temperature though, that’s something at least. I’ll fetch you some water – do you need any aspirin? I can pop down to the chemist’s, it might still be open if I rush...’

‘Fay, I’m fine.’ I push myself up off the bed, then frown at her. ‘You’re home early, aren’t you?’

She looks at me side-long. ‘Not particularly, no...’

‘Then...’ I catch sight of the clock. Five o’ clock. ‘Oh, shit.’

I rush to the mirror and start fixing my hair and face, grateful the slight puffiness around my eyes isn’t too noticeable. ‘Gonna be laaaaaate!’ I complain, dragging my comb through my blond locks. ‘I already am!’

‘Calm down, Rosy – you’re going to injure yourself at that pace.’ She calmly walked over to the small closet, picking out some of my “work clothes” and folding them into a bag. ‘What do you need?’

‘My make up pouch – over there, on the table.’ I always wait until I get to work before dressing up, to save on hassle. ‘And if you can find my eyelash curler.’

I see her reflection wave it at me before it goes into the bag. ‘Shoes?’ she asks.

‘The strappy ones, black,’ I tell her, finishing with pinning my hair in place.

‘Coin purse? Key?’

‘Here.’ I pat my brassiere, making her giggle.

‘All set, then.’ She hands over the bag. ‘Have a good night, chicky. Be careful.’

She’s referring to the regular danger, the men, I know; but suddenly I have to bite my tongue to stop more droplets forming in my eyes as my reality falls back ontop my head. ‘I will be. See you in the morning.’ It’s a wish in statement form. I pause, looking her straight in the eyes, then reach forward and capture her in a tight hug. ‘You’re such a good friend to me. Thank you.’

Fay looks confused by the sudden formality. ‘It’s fine, hun. You’re sure you’re feeling well?’

‘The best,’ I respond. I put all effort into a cheery smile. ‘Bye!’

Then I tug the door open and step out into the evening air.

 

 

I manage to get to the House and get changed in the dressing room before six o’ clock, so while I get a stern glare from Madam Peony and a stiff order that I’m on bar duty tonight, at least I’m not out of a job. The housemistress is well-known for her strict rule over her business, and I know girls let go for one absence too many, but since I’m usually fairly punctual I guess this is my one free pass.

Fay, bless her, packed the most modest working dress from my collection, a green number with lacy shoulders and mother-of-pearl buttons. It must still be fairly scandalous by her standards though, so I appreciate her not having made comment.

I stand behind the bar, leaning on my elbow and slowly picking a patch of grime off the counter with a cloth. It’ll be another hour yet before it starts picking up properly, so I let my mind wander. Did I make the right choice? I hope so. I could be half way out of Birmingham on a train by now, headed to lose myself in London; maybe I should have done that. Yes. What am I thinking, staying here? I’m like a sitting duck for any Blinder who has my description! But no. It’ll be fine. I’ll be –

‘A whiskey, darl.’

I almost jump out of my skin.

‘Jeez, Rosy, it’s jus’ me!’ Agatha exclaims from across the bar, holding out her hands to show she meant peace. ‘Jus’ me, calm down!’

‘Sorry! I’m fine. Sorry,’ I tell her. A couple of deep breaths to help slow my racing heart again. ‘Sorry,’ I repeat again. ‘Strange day.’

‘Righ’.’ The bird-like woman perched herself on a high bar stool uneasily. ‘Ev’rythin’ alrigh’, hun?’

‘I’m fine, like I said.’ I attempt a smile and lean myself back against the counter extra-casually, changing the topic. ‘Got any interesting regulars tonight?’

‘Y’know it!’ Agatha half-groans. ‘Prob’ly Matterson ’n’ the German, they won’ be too bad, bu’ I’ve got both Cabbage ’n’ Footsie, too.’

‘Both of them?’ Cabbage and Footsie are on the pass-around list. Not their real names, obviously, but accurate as far as descriptions go. Cabbage is a big man – properly big, that is; his rolls of skin and fat hang off him over top of one another, and there are even rolls under his chins, cushioning him so that he doesn't even have to hold his neck up. Perhaps for this reason he finds it difficult to wash completely, if at all, hence the odour-based nickname. He always comes dressed in just an undershirt and trousers, perhaps shoes if it’s a good day, though it’s usually not, and often slightly more than tipsy, but always just under what the bouncers consider enough to turn him out. Footsie, on the other hand, is a tall, gangly man with a stooping back and long clammy fingers. His short hair is always damp from the cold sweat constantly clinging to his brow – to touch him is to gather droplets onto your fingers like dew from grass. I had never known the reason for his name while Ethel was at the House – she was his favourite, and she said she didn’t mind him so much, since he paid well. Once she left to get married, though, he became the responsibility of the rest of the House, and his indecent obsession became obvious. Footsie is one of my least favourite customers, which really is saying something.

‘Both of ‘em, yeah,’ Agatha answers, slumping down onto the bar top in mock-defeat. ‘I’s off sick las’ week when Cabbage came in, ’n Pauline covered for me. ’Em’s the breaks, I s’pose.’

‘S’pose so,’ I say sympathetically, squeezing her arm. ‘Don’t despair, hun – there’s a magical elixir to help with that.’ She grins knowingly, and I turn around to survey the liquor selection. ‘It was whisky, right?’

‘Uh... Rosy?’

‘What?’ I look at the bottle in my hand; nothing seems wrong. ‘You want the Irish?’ I take this one from its place too. ‘You know you’ve got to pay for it if you want this, Madam Peony’s started measuring the amount in the bottle.’

No answer.

‘Come on, girly, I haven’t got all night.’ I turn around holding them out for her to see. 'Make a decision!'

‘I suppose it’ll have to be the Irish, then,’ Mr Shelby tells me.

Instant white knuckles around the two bottles as I freeze up like a statue. I can only watch as the gangster settles himself in the newly-vacated seat; he takes off his trademark hat, placing it neatly on the bar next to him. Then he looks up at me expectantly.

I gently put the bottles down on the counter for fear I’ll shatter them. I knew this was a possibility, but now I don’t know how to begin. ‘Mr Shelby, I...’

He ignores the stammering start, reaching over the bar and lifting two glasses from the counter with one hand. ‘Here, pour yerself one too, and let’s have a chat.’

Now I’m over the initial shock, my senses start coming back to me. My darting eyes meet those of Aggie, ghost-white a short distance off, who is watching the exchange petrified. Everyone else, I notice, or rather what few everyones there are left in the room, have their eyes cast firmly in another direction, be it to another person, a drink, or even a wall. My gaze meets the Blinder’s again, and the coldness in his eyes doesn’t change even as his lips turn upwards politely.

I take a cautious step forward and pour the two glasses halfway full, with quaking hands. ‘Certainly, Mr Shelby. What would you like to chat about?’

‘Oh, we’ll come up with a topic,’ the pale man lilts, lifting his glass. ‘To your health.’

To... my health? That’s something I’m wishing with all my heart, but it sounds strange from his mouth. ‘And to yours,’ I return cautiously, holding out my own.

A small smirk pulls at his jaw. ‘Most kind.’ He makes the last movement forward to clink my glass, then takes a sip from his.

Although it’s been a couple of months since Mr Shelby first appeared in my life, I realise that this is the first time he’s spoken directly to me. Suddenly I’m aware of him. Properly aware. Before I had known that he is a gang leader, that he is dangerous, that he was going to kill that man behind a warehouse with the debris of the man’s house still on his boots, but it’s only now, with his full attention focused on me like a spotlight that the full extent of the danger I’m in hits me. It’s like facing a shark in the deepest water, a lion in the pit. A gangster in a whorehouse.

Suddenly I’m wishing I had run.

He clicks his fingers. ‘I’ve got it! Let’s talk about our days today. I must say, I had quite the day. Horses to manage at dawn, imports to manage at noon, and after lunch, a li’l business meeting.’ He pauses, glass held just in front of his mouth. ‘Didn’t go quite the way I’d planned it.’ His eyes bore into me as he tilts the glass. Then he puts it down onto the bar lightly and caresses the rim nonchalantly. ‘Enough about me, though. How’s about your day?’

I am a rabbit in headlights. 'My day was...' My available vocabulary vanishes like a fine mist, leaving me with only a selection of clunky single-syllables to choose from. '… Good.'

Wow. Good? I have no idea how that word slipped out, it was really the wrong choice of word. Mr Shelby raises his eyebrows. 'Really? Well that's good then. That's all I came here to know, after all – that your fucking day was good.'

The venomous swearword startles me, and I see impatience starting to grow in those eyes, but Shelby masks it well with a slow sip from his tumbler. I sweep my eyes quickly around the room; most of the interest has waned, and business cautiously continues, if a bit less bar-central than usual. Agatha is still observing us from a distance, but her attention is divided by the mark she is chatting up. No one close enough, let alone willing or capable to help; I'm on my own.

'Fine,' I say through gritted teeth, feeling my hands begin to shake again. 'What do you want me to say? I saw you by the warehouse. I won't tell anyone, I swear it-'

There's a gun sitting on the bar top next to the gangster's hand, when did that happen? I close my mouth snap-shut.

Mr Shelby smiles. 'Oh, we're being honest now? That's just grand. Let's start at the beginning, then. Who are you, who do you work for, and why were you skulking behind my property?'

The blood drumming in my ears is enough reminder I should answer quickly. 'R-Rosaline Murdoch, I work for the House, and... Well, I saw your men taking the barber, I thought he might be hurt.' An answer despite the black void of a gun barrel staring at me – if I weren't terrified I'd be quite impressed with myself.

Shelby, however, picks up the gun and trains it onto my heart. 'Do you want to try that again?'

I freeze, feeling what was left of my blood drain from my face. 'I...' No more words.

'Who do you work for?' Shelby repeats. 'Another police informant? They should stop sending pretty blondes, that trick only works once.'

'I'm not! Please, I only work here, no one sent me.'

Mr Shelby huffs disbelievingly. 'So it's just a coincidence that you came to my warehouse?'

'Yes! Well, no – there was smoke, and then those men, and I followed-'

'So you did follow them!' It's almost triumphant. 'Why?'

I feel trapped, my hands shaking again and my heart beating bruises into my ribcage, then suddenly – a switch goes off in my mind. It feels like my body rejecting the fear like a sickness, as total and consuming as a sneeze, and I realise I'm angry.

A gun pointed at my chest, yet I manage to be angry.

Only me.

'I just wanted to know!' I all but shout; 'Three men limping away from an explosion with no police and no firemen, I was curious where they were going. You think I'm undercover?' I choke out a sob-bark, the closest I can get to a sarcastic laugh. 'You think I'm some kind of spy, whoring by night and uncovering crime by day? You've been reading the serials too much. I'll swear by whatever you want me to swear by that I'll keep mum, I'll forget all about what I saw, what else do you want me to say?' If I'd thought I had adrenaline earlier in the day, it was nothing compared to this. 'I know you've already decided you aren't going to shoot me. Go ahead and prove me wrong,' I spread my arms wide. 'But I don't think you will.'

Silence throughout the House. And so there should be. I just set a dare to Mr Runs-The-Whole-District-Shelby. I think the only one breathing anymore is me, deep dragging breaths that seem to echo as I try prepare myself for a gunshot and pain. Mr Shelby looks almost cartoonishly stuck in place, white knuckles around the gun starting to make me worry he might pull the handgun's trigger by simple accident. In the background I can see stunned-possum eyes glued to us, but they seem out of focus and fuzzy somehow. For a few long seconds, the world feels like a snapshot where it should be a moving picture, and we're all waiting, watching, expecting it to move though it might not.

Mr Shelby is the only one who can move in this still world. A deep breath of his own pulls him out of his freeze-frame. He gestures towards me with a little motion of his gun, seemingly to give himself another moment to think. Finally he speaks. 'What makes you think I won't?'

A creak of a floorboard under his feet, the distant pound of horse shoes on cobbles, and silence.

The answer could well get me shot. Not answering, though... Well, that will get me shot too. 'I...'

I'm aware of the focus on us now. This is not something the gangster would want in the open, so if I say it aloud I put us all in danger. So, with trembling steps I move out around the bar, hyper-aware of the sound of my shoes on the floor. Mr Shelby follows my progress with both gaze and barrel, a furrow between his brows, but he allows my approach, though he tenses up as I get closer than a few feet to him.

Shelby's taller than I realised. He adjusts his grip on his handgun, wary of a trick, but he lets me stretch up to him, putting my mouth as close to his ear as I dare.

I whisper three words. 'What's her name?'

I know I'm right, but I couldn't have anticipated the effect that would have. The gangster visibly wilts, gun hand dropping to his side, and he takes a step back as though I had shot him instead. 'How...' He pauses, surveying me with wide eyes.

A murmur starts in the back of the room, and he glances back towards the assembled men, which seems to bring him back to himself. He reaches past me slowly to lift his cap off the bar top, placing it atop his head in a well-practised swoop and straightening it thoughtfully. From this close to him, I can see the metallic edges of the razors in the hat's brim and the thick stitches holding them in place. I hold my breath, waiting for him to turn and leave.

But instead, in a move that draws air from my lungs, the gangster grasps a bundle of material at the front of my dress, pulls me until nose almost meets nose, and thrusts his gun into my gut. 'You talk to anyone,' he menaces, 'I won't. Even. Blink.'

He pushes me backwards, letting go of my dress, and I stumble to catch myself against the bar. When I look up, he's flung open the door, and without a glance back he strides off into the night.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... It's been a while.  
> Whoops.  
> I'm not going to insult you by offering apology; instead, all I can say is, thank you for the amazing responses. Every comment pushed me a little further forward through my writer's block. I have a bad habit of abandoning ship when I feel water at my toes, but your comments have kept me on board, and hopefully we're through the storm now. So, once again, thank you from the bottom of my heart.  
> I'd also like to assure you that I wouldn't upload a chapter like this without following with another one fairly soon after, so don't despair - the next one's already half written. Hope you can forgive me for what I'm about to put poor Rosaline through... But hey, everyone has bad days at work, right?  
> Right?
> 
> Forever yours,  
> -The Plot Ninja

Whore’s liquor is an acquired taste.

I hated it at first, when I started working for the House; it’s a beverage unlike any other, and no one, save whores, has a reason to drink it. It’s the same golden-brown hue as the popular cheap whiskey we sell, and mixed with soda-water it looks a lot like a generic type of beer, but its taste is as far removed from these drinks as it could possibly be.

The first sip is always a shock to the senses, a sugary surge overwhelming the taste buds. After swallowing, you discover the first hint of any flavour, a malty cloud that you feel yourself exhaling for minutes afterwards. There’s a bare hint of mint there too, just enough to freshen the breath so you don’t send the next client into a sugar-induced coma. No alcohol, though. That’s rather the point.

The House isn’t seated in a particularly rich area; we often see the last coin of the week, the bottom of the pocket, the promise of next week’s first coin. It’s funny, though – you put a drunk, horny man in a room with other drunk, horny men, add a few beautiful ladies, and suddenly the cash flows almost as freely as the testosterone and the booze. Everything is a competition, from the length of their sticks to the speed they can pour grog down their gullets; and if you find yourself in the middle of this, you can end up having drink after drink bought for you in a never-ending wave of slobbering masculinity. There’s no rule against accepting a drink, and in fact declining one rather ruins the joviality, which is the worst thing a prostitute can do; but most of us are at the House nearly every night, for the entire night, and we see men wash in and out like sea-scum on the tide. Whore’s liquor satisfies the men who don’t have to drink it and saves the girls who do, and I learnt to appreciate it shortly after taking up the profession. With a quick hand signal to whichever of us is on bar duty, whiskey can be faked and I can leave the House at 5am as equal-headed as I was at the shift’s beginning.

Tonight, I give no hand signals.

I am the woman who faced down the gangster; Madam Peony has me off of bar duty and auctioned to one of the crowd within minutes of the man’s departure. A round of “you deserve a reward, now let me _give_ it to you” later, and I’m back out there, a glass of true whiskey pushed into my hand and down my throat as the next customer steps up to bat.

For some reason, my bravery seems to have warranted a rougher fuck than usual. I quickly realise that to these men, fucking me is less about fucking a brave woman, and more about enjoying control over someone that apparently has a little control over Shelby. So, I down a drink between courses; it cleanses the pallet, after all, and the warm fuzz that falls over my vision makes it more difficult to see the hands of the clock. It could be minutes that have passed, it could be hours, but at least I can be sure it’s moving forwards even as the movements around me are getting more and more abstract.

It’s an abstract walk home, too. A Picasso of a walk perhaps, or a Monet; I know I am doing it, but it’s more an impression of walking home than the actual act. I stay upright most of the way, which I suppose is a kind of art in itself. I reach home somehow, although getting through the door is a struggle when the house’s artist has drawn two, three or maybe no doorknobs at all. I manage it eventually, and the stairs only paint my knees purple twice as I near-crawl my way up.

Once I’m in my flat I grasp a cup of water, spill half down my throat and pour the rest down my dress, then set the kettle on for tea. There’s a waist-length mirror on the wall I always look at while waiting for the water. I stand staring at myself a while, swaying. I look a mess. No way I’m going to manage tea, I realise dimly.

The water on my dress has just reached my skin, and I decide I should get out of it before I am chilled; I take it off clumsily whilst maintaining eye contact with my mirrored self. The movement alerts me to the pain I feel in my nether regions, and I finally break my own gaze to bend a little; I cup my genitals through my pants, wincing. It isn’t just there, though, it’s deep inside me; I feel bruised and battered. I realise the bruises on my knees are already starting to show. I look in the mirror and examine my sides where I’ve been grabbed repetitively throughout the night, and I poke softly with my fingers; there’s no mark yet, but I can tell there will be by the afternoon. One on my arm looks pretty delightful too, though I don’t remember where I got that. I stare blankly at my body in the mirror, not certain of the thoughts going through my head but knowing that they’re racing, before I finally notice something tiny just under my ribs that I didn’t see before. I move closer to examine it.

It’s a small, circular bruise, no bigger than a shilling. I trace it with my finger; it’s not deep enough to really hurt. It is odd, though – it’s darker around the outside, then fades back to near my normal skin tone in the middle, like a small ring.

I gasp suddenly and stagger backwards, and the motion makes me sick on the floor, with no time to move towards the sink. Barrel-shaped, I have realised, clarity through the mud and fuzz in my brain. The end of a gun pushed into me as if to skewer me. This is where I could have died tonight.

My back has found a wall, and my legs give way gratefully, sliding me down slowly until I land with a small thud and a wheeze. My breaths are shallow and my lungs unwilling; my eyes dredge up the small amount of water I just drank down until I can’t see a thing. I bury my head between my knees with my arms wrapped around me as tight as they can go. I sit there and I sob, helpless in an ocean of dread.

The whistling kettle wakes Fay; it rings out for what felt like an age, but I am unwilling to move for fear I’ll discover I’m still alive. So when my flatmate enters the room, she must be faced with the sight of the kettle boiling over, a puddle of spew on the floor next to a discarded dress, and her friend in her underclothes in the corner, sobbing and smelling strongly of sex and beer and whiskey and vomit.

I find that I constantly underestimate her strength. She has quickly turned off the kettle, ignored the spew, and within a minute she has a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, and she’s holding me close and rocking us back and forwards, muttering that everything is going to be okay.

She makes me believe her somehow.

I fall asleep in her arms.

 

 

Some time during the night, I died.

With complete certainty, I can say this. The alcohol in my system poisoned my organs, and my heart beat its last as my liver gave up.

I died, and went to hell.

It’s a little different than I thought it would be. Black and humid, with flashes of light; and the whole place seems to be moving and swaying like a ship on the high seas. I feel paralysed, and broken. I can’t do anything to protect myself from this new reality I’ve been dumped into.

My head pounds.

My stomach flips.

My mouth is dry and tastes like vomit.

 My left foot is cold.

Oh. Wait.

I flail clumsily, feeling cloth against my hands, wrapped around me like a cocoon. The air is stuffy and suffocating, and it takes minutes of panicked movement before I can free my head and shift the bed sheets far enough down the bed to be able to breathe properly again.

‘ _Oww_.’ The groan comes unbidden from my lips.

Hell looks a lot like my flat, as it turns out. I squint against the room’s dim light that seems to be blazing into my eyelids. The urge to throw up again is looming in the back of my throat, and I sit up and gag in preparation, but luckily nothing comes of it. The swaying motion doesn’t give up, however, and I grasp one hand to my splitting headache and one hand I twist into the sheets so I don’t fall off the face of the Earth. I swear, I can feel the planet’s rotation, and Galileo was right – we do circle the sun after all, at millions of miles an hour. I collapse back down onto the bed, keeping a tight hold on the sheets as I try my best to rejoin the world of the living.

There are huge holes in the night, I realise; chunks of memory float by themselves in an ocean of time that my brain forgot to record. What I do remember isn’t pretty. I groan and turn onto my side, feeling the aches from both the drinking and my strenuous work night.

The kitchen chair is sitting next to the bed, acting as a night stand, I realise; upon it are a glass of water and a small, white pill. I scrabble across to it and gratefully swallow the aspirin down. Thank God for Fay, I think, glad to finally wash down the stale taste in my mouth.

Poor Fay, I think on the second mouthful. I look down; she dressed me in my nightgown and everything. Heaven knows how she even got me into the bed – she’s such a petite girl.

Our small rubbish bin is sitting just next to the chair, and the sight of the yellowish pool of liquid at the bottom makes me retch again. Nothing comes of it, luckily. I groan. My head throbs. Why is living so hard?

It must be another hour before I consider getting up again. Somehow I make it to the door and down the corridor with minimal stumbling, down to the shared bathroom. At least the world has ceased its rocking, but I run my hand over the walls to ensure my balance on the way, just to be sure.

The room is dank and little and always smells somewhat strange, but it’s clean enough, and I sit blissfully on the loo for a while, not particularly inclined to move. Whisky, I decide, is a backstabbing friend. I ponder on this for a while, allowing myself to stay sitting almost doubled over, which seems to help the nausea a little.

_Knock, knock, knock._

Impatient raps on the door bring me back to the present; they’re followed by a shrill ‘Hurry it up, I got things to do!’

I close my eyes and wince. Mrs Grant. ‘I’ll be just another minute!’ I call back. It’s best not to swear at one’s neighbours if you can help it, after all. I hear a ‘ _Humph_ ’ back at me.

I flush, wash up, and then with wet hands I smooth down my hair as best I can. It’s matted and wild; no amount of finger-combing is going to fix it. I run one finger under my eye, and it comes away smudged black with mascara. Wonderful.

I sigh. Nothing to be done about it now, I suppose. I unlatch the door, and walk as quickly past the snowy-haired little woman as I can. ‘All yours,’ I quip.

Wide eyes follow me. ‘Disgraceful!’ she shoots at me after a few seconds’ horrified pause. ‘You floozy! God condemns yer disgusting ways, tramp!’

I continue down the corridor, hand once again on the wall to guide me. ‘A good afternoon to you, too,’ I mutter under my breath. I assume it’s afternoon. I haven’t actually seen a clock yet.

‘Ye’ll burn in hellfire!’ is her last salutation to me before I shut the door behind me, resisting all urges to thrust two fingers in her direction. If scaring elderly neighbours isn’t a great way to begin a day, I don’t know what is. I must look fairly awful. I hobble to put on the kettle, then look left to examine myself in the mirror.

The reflection confirms my suspicions. The top of my hair is smoothed down but wet from my earlier efforts to tame it; past that, it looks like blonde straw, matted widely on both sides of my face. My eyes, as I deduced, are ringed by black, giving me a raccoonish look, and the lipstick I forgot I was wearing is smeared to the left of my mouth.

I guess I can’t blame Mrs Grant for her judgement of me.

It’s curious, though, that all of this... It doesn’t bother me much. The slightly-faded bruises, the neighbourly contempt, the knowledge that I’m going to have to go back and do it all again tonight – it doesn’t fill me with pleasure, certainly. But it doesn’t make me feel bad. I’m not angry, or sad, and I’m undoubtedly unashamed.

I finish making my tea, strong and sweet, and relish in the first sips that calm my roiling stomach. It’s a kind of peace, at least; here in my tiny kitchen, with my brain pounding a drumbeat against my skull, and the bruised twinge in my nether region making sitting just slightly unfavourable, but with a hot drink and a few hours still to pull myself back together... An odd peace, but it’s soothing. Settling.

One more memory, though, returns to me as I sit there. I finish my tea and place the mug in the sink, then stand back in front of the mirror and raise my nightgown.

It’s faded, but still there. That little, perfect circle just under my ribs. Suddenly I can feel it again, that cold metal through my clothes, his hand grasping and yanking me forwards by my dress’s material, his breath in my ear as he leaned in close. _You talk to anyone, I won’t even blink_.

I take an involuntary step back, allowing the nightgown to cover me once more. The peace is gone, and my emotions tumble like they had in the instant he’d let me go. How can such a little mark hold so much power over me?

In the dimly-lit flat, I shiver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment if you hate me  
> Comment if you at least partially don't
> 
>  
> 
> My non-religious, non-American thanksgiving:  
> Thank God for the people in my life who are like Fay.  
> -The Plot Ninja


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I knew I was getting to this point since the start of this story; I didn't realise the journey would take so many words.  
> Thank you for your attention, your kudos, and most of all, your comments :)  
> I know it's risky to write an emotional scene between two OC's, so... I hope you find it as engaging as you would with other pairings, and please trust, it is in service of the plot - which, after all, is the story's beating heart.  
> Besides, I think he's kinda cute :P
> 
> Much love,  
> -The Plot Ninja

That day back is as slow as it is painful, but it soon passes, followed by the next and the next, until time is flowing fluidly once more. Fay tries to talk about what happened that night, tries every morning and any evening we’re together. I shower whatever gifts on her I can afford, cigarettes and ribbons, even scrounging together enough to buy a box of small caramel chocolates; but every time she starts on the topic, I shut it down as swiftly as possible. She eventually gives up, but I can see the concern and the comment there, just under the surface, itching to be released.

I welcome the routine of work; constant as ever, the House has soon forgotten the incident, and I’m back to seducing lonely hearts and gossiping with the other girls.

After a few weeks, though, it becomes clear that routine has not been constant for us all. One dreary Thursday at the beginning of the work night, sitting around dolled-up and waiting for the rush to hit, it becomes clear that Dotty is in a black mood.

Agatha is the first to notice it. ‘Whisky, hun?’ she offers the brunette beauty.

Dotty snatches the tumbler, drains it, then ungraciously thrusts it back towards Agatha.

‘Whoa now,’ the latter exclaims. ‘Wha’s got yer knickers in a twist?’

‘You well know what!’ Dotty strops, then throws a scowl in my direction.

My eyes widen. ‘Sorry, what? What have I done?’

Dotty now leaps to her feet. ‘How should I know? Mr Shelby’s hardly been here t’ discuss it with me, has he, since th’ two of you fell out!’

‘I saw ‘im las’ week,’ Agatha interjects. ‘He’s bin ‘ere!’

‘Sure,’ Dotty concedes haughtily. ‘He’s been back. Can hardly call him a regular no more, though. Skips entire weeks, he does, then on Monday he comes in an’ just mopes, an’ stops before we get started even. He only left half the bill!’

‘But if you didn’t have to do anything-’ I try to reason, but Dotty interrupts with a ‘Shush!’ and an angry sob.  ‘He’s been comin’ so regular lately, I jus’ thought he’d keep on comin’. But then you did wha’ever you did, an’ now...’ Her scowl deepens. ‘Wanted t’ buy a new dress. Would’ve afforded it by now, if he’d kept coming regular.’

‘I’m sorry, Dotty.’ I’m not sure what I’m apologising for, but I’m not going to win any arguments with her tonight.

‘Jus’ stay away from him,’ she commands finally. ‘I don’ want you scarin’ him off once n’ for all!’

And then, in an amazing feat of duplicity, she gets up and turns to the incoming group of men, seductive smile on her lips and a sway in her walk.

Aggie shakes her head. ‘Tha’ girl astounds me,’ she sighs bemusedly.

I agree so completely, I can’t even say a word.

 

‘Bye,’ I wave to the lumbering Cabbage, watching him waddle out the door with a jiggle. As soon as he’s gone, I race back upstairs and into the washroom, trying to scrub his stench off me as much as possible. It takes a while, and I scowl. They should ban him for being abusive to the nostrils.

I knew this was my rostered night, so I brought extra clothes and wash cloths. By the time I’m washed and back in the main throng, I’m looking, and more importantly smelling, as fresh as if I’d just arrived, if a little more tired.

The bar beckons enticingly, and I place myself on a stool. Agatha is bartending, and with one look at my face she brings me two fingers of whiskey. I hold my glass up to salute her. ‘Aggie, you’re a doll.’

As far as nights go, this one is busy. A football game was on earlier, Birmingham verses someone or other – I really didn’t keep up with all that. No matter what the outcome of a game would be, though, we would always be busy that night, either with elated winners looking to celebrate, or with sullen losers cursing both the away team and their own, and looking to gain back a bit of manhood and face. The atmosphere tonight is gleeful – I can only assume we won.

I take a few minutes to myself amidst the clamour and noise, sipping on my whiskey slowly. No one disturbs me much, other than the occasional bump of a man getting at the bar for another amber-filled glass; there are plenty enough girls working tonight, Madam Peony always being ready for a game-night profit. She often says she is a bigger football fan than any of her clients, though unable to name a single team nor understand a single rule.

Pauline passes behind me, putting one hand on my back and leaning in to murmur in my ear on her way past. ‘You have an admirer, hun.’

I look up at her as she departs, and groan inwardly at her teasing smirk; this can only be a bad thing. I sit back in my barstool, pretending to stretch, then, as casually as I can, I turn to scan the room.

Brown puppy-dog eyes stare back at me intensely.

I spin back around again. Shit. I’m even less happy now I know who my watcher is – that young virgin from a few weeks ago. Will? No, Walter. Walt. The lanky teenager with floppy mouse-brown hair and older friends pressuring him. Not tonight, though – from what I saw in my glance, young Walt is all alone tonight. He looks younger than ever, seeming out of his depth but clearly determined and on a mission of some kind.

I’m experienced enough to know just what that mission is.

I gulp down the last mouthful of my whiskey, mind racing to come up with a plan. Now he knows I’ve seen him there, he’ll be walking towards me; he’ll ask to talk. All I can do is try and let him down as gently as I can. I just wish it weren’t so full in here tonight; hopefully he won’t make too much of a scene.

Small chance. He seems like the sort that would make a scene.

Before I can come up with any more of a plan, he’s there beside me, sliding himself awkwardly onto the barstool. ‘Rosaline,’ he says, his voice almost a reverent whisper.

I look straight ahead. ‘Walt,’ I flatly return.

He falters at my tone, falling silent. Obviously this is not the greeting he had prepared his speech for. I decide to give him some time to regroup and try again, motioning Agatha for a top-up. She gives me a look as she pours, flicking her eyes over Walt. She pours one for him and places it in front of him; he thanks her but leaves it untouched.

Once she moves off, Walt begins again. ‘I jus’ wanned to…’ He shakes his head as if to rearrange his thoughts. ‘Tha’ is, I wanned to ask you…’

This is taking far too long; I turn to look at him, and decide to interrupt the great orator before he manages to reach a whole ten words in a row. ‘I know what you’re going to ask me, Walt. I’m sorry. The answer is no.’

This dries his poetic streak right up. ‘The… What?’

I take a slow sip so he can get some thinking-time.

‘No,’ he starts over again, his brows furrowed. ‘I weren’ gonna ask wha’ you think I were gonna ask. See, I wanned to ask – I don’ wan’ what all these other men… I mean, I think yer really…’ He’s breathing so quickly I’m worried he’s going to hyperventilate and faint; I want to step in again, but when I open my mouth he puts his hand up. He seems to be struggling, like a man drowning. Finally he catches his breath and, in a tiny voice, implores me with his puppy-dog eyes. ‘I love you, Rosaline.’

He said it. Out loud. I hide my cringe, but now it’s in the open it seems to embolden him, and he carries on. ‘I love you, Rosaline, an’ I wanna marry you!’

‘Shh!’ I urge; he’s beginning to attract curious glances from people close to us.

‘No,’ he returns evenly. ‘I don’ care who knows, I love you an’ I don’ care who knows it!’ His volume increases throughout this pronouncement, and now there are many more eyes on us; men are laughing, and the House girls are trying their hardest to recapture their clients’ attention, throwing occasional scowls our way. I spot Madam Peony pointedly lingering close by, and Ted, the burly bouncer at the door of the House, has his eyes pinned on Walt.

‘Walt,’ I start uneasily.

‘Look, I know tha’ it’s hard to-’

I’m losing my temper. ‘Not here. Let’s go talk.’ I grab his hand, brokering no argument from him; I don’t quite know where I’m going to take his as I do this, but I quickly decide that at least in a private room none of these priers can follow, and I don’t think he’s too dangerous. A few men start to slow-clap as I lead him off, some hooting for Walt in words that make him fall silent once more and blush up to his hairline.

We weave through the football fans towards the stairs as an impatient train with a love-struck carriage. He tries to intertwine our fingers; I disengage, and grab his wrist instead. Just as I’m about to go up the stairs, I almost bump into Dotty, stopping just in time; Walt keeps going and all but bowls into me, knocking me forward, and as I put out my foot to steady myself, I tread on her foot. ‘Oh! Sorry, hun!’ I gasp, pushing Walt away so I can step back. ‘Are you alright?’

She’s gritting her teeth. It’s clear that she isn't. ‘Fine,’ she says anyway, a wide, fake smile forced onto her features.

I notice she, too, is leading someone, who has stopped just behind her. ‘Sorry for holding you up, you go first,’ I say… But at the end I trail out as I notice just who the man is. He, too, is looking at me his expression wide and taken aback; then it shifts to Walt, who cowers under the man’s gaze, which turns poisonous.

‘Thanks, _hun_ ,’ Dotty says, trying and failing to be subtle in her sarcasm. Then her mouth twists up in an expression of spiteful glee as she sees my reaction to her guest. ‘Let’s go, Mr Shelby,’ she purrs at the man, wrapping her fingers like vines tighter through his fingers, and she guides the gangster up the stairs before anything else can interrupt them.

Mr Shelby follows jerkily, like an automaton, leaving me at the bottom of the staircase staring after them.

Shuffling behind me brings me back to myself, and I retrain my grip around Walt’s wrist. ‘Alright, let’s go, Walt,’ I tell the boy, and lead him up the stairs.

I take him to the room at the end of the corridor, ignoring the moans and noises leaking out through the doors on the way; he enters before me, and I shut the door after me.

His eyes are wide. ‘Was tha’…’

‘Don’t worry about him. Sit down.’

Walt perches on the bed nervously.

When I sit next to him on the bed, he wiggles a little, and I realise he’s recalling the first time we were in this position together. Quickly I move another person’s width away from him.

In this new place, Walt’s courage seems to have left him entirely, as he’s withdrawn back into the little mouse he was when I first met him. I decide that now, if ever, is the time I should try the “gently, gently” approach. I’ve never been good at that.

‘Walt,’ I say soothingly, ‘I know you think you’re in love with me…’

‘Am.’ It’s a squeak.

I look straight at him with a no-nonsense look. ‘I can tell that you’re not. Do you know how I know?’

‘No.’ Is he about to cry? I feel he might.

I take up his hand, and stroke it reassuringly. ‘What’s my favourite colour?’

‘Green.’

I shake my head. ‘How old am I?’

He considers this for a minute. ’25?’

‘No. What do I do for fun?’

He looks at me from under his lashes and shrugs slightly.

‘Close your eyes.’ He does as I bid. ‘Describe me.’

This challenge he takes up with a little more gusto. ‘Blonde hair – like honey – an’ it falls t’ here,’ he motions a length; ‘an’ red lips, an’ a black lacy dress…’ He exhales his excitement; I wonder briefly if he’s trying not to fall into the temptation of describing my breasts, for that’s what his face shows is on his mind.

‘Marks? Moles?’

‘No,’ he whispers. ‘Flawless skin.’

‘Eye colour?’

His eyes still closed, he tilts his head slightly as he thinks. ‘Green?’

‘Open your eyes, Walt.’ He does as I command, his big brown eyes showing nothing but perplexity. I gesture to myself, then, when still no light of comprehension flickers on, I instruct him, ‘Look at me closely.’

He begins to eye me, blushing. Blue eyes, not green; bottle-green dress, not black; but these are just the start. I see him note for the first time the two small spots at the edge of my right eye, one on my jawline, the tiny pock scar above my left eyebrow. He takes in my hair, freshly done after my Cabbage encounter but already with little fly-aways that not even hairspray could hold back.

I’m still holding his hand in my right hand, and now I put my left hand on top of that. ‘You’ve imagined a dreamgirl, Walt,’ I say softly. ‘I could never live up to that, and I shouldn’t have to.’

We sit like that for a little while. Eventually, Walt ventures, ‘Bu’… I could take y’away from here… Don’ you… Wan’ that? Wan' t' be free from... this?’

I consider how to answer. ‘I… like my job.’ It’s as true as I can say. ‘And I’m good at it. It gives me money, and independence. Besides, I wouldn’t be good for you.’ He opens his mouth to protest, but I hold up my hand to stop him. ‘You’re young, Walt. You think you’re in love with me – but, you’re not. I took your virginity – and that’s a powerful thing, and we’ll always have that connection-’ or, he would, anyway – ‘but that’s not love, that’s infatuation. And you deserve the chance to fall in love. Properly. With a girl that you see exactly as she is, but that you love anyway.’

He takes all these words in solemnly; I wonder just how much he takes to be true. But whatever is going on behind the scenes, he nods slowly, and, taking his hand back, raises from the bed. ‘Alrigh’,’ he concedes finally. ‘You don’  think ‘m in love wi’ you, fine. I know I am. Bu’ I’ll try.’ He gives me another look, full of puppy-dog dejection that almost breaks my heart. ‘I’ll remember you, Rosaline. Always.’

I shouldn’t do it. As soon as I’ve done it I know it’s a mistake; but I’ve already leaned in, and place a slow, chaste kiss to him cheek. I draw back as if that was entirely regular. ‘Good luck, Walt,’ I tell him. He nods, turns, and exits the room.

I stand there alone in the room for a time, thinking. Maybe Walt got the message; he certainly seemed reasonable enough. But I have delivered similar speeches time and time again, to all sorts of men who think they fell in love with the whore and wanted to rescue her, save her from her world of debauchery; of course, I turn them all down. But that usually results in an entirely different reaction. Ungrateful bitch. Ugly cunt. I didn’t want you anyway. No one but me will ever love you. Here’s what my fists have to say about that.

And so, Walt’s calmness worries me. Maybe he’s simply the most docile man to ever be rejected; maybe not.

Either way, I find myself resolving, there’s not a lot I can do to change it. I brush the bedsheets flat once more, then finally leave the room.

Just in time, it seems, to put myself in a bad place at the worst time – Mr Shelby charges out of a room, looking as pale as death. Catching the barest glimpse of me, he takes on a green hue; for an instant, I think he’s about to reveal his dinner to the floor, but instead he races down the stairs and out of sight. At the same time as I hear the door slam, Dotty emerges from the same room at a matching pace with nothing preserving her dignity but a thin white duvet, so thin that the outline of most of her shape can easily be distinguished through it. She is calling after him, although it is too late, pleading that he come back.

‘He’s gone, Dotty,’ I say softly, for she seems in genuine grief because of his leaving.

She freezes in place, then spins on her heel. A feral look gleams in her eye. In three stomps she is before me, and I barely see her hand coming as it flies in from the side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comment goes down there  
> |  
> |  
> |  
> V Love, The Plot Ninja


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you guys are amazing.
> 
> I knew that already. The many lovely comments, and the constant flow of kudos, even after all this time... You are fantastic. What I didn't expect as a side-effect of being away so long was concerns about my health and well-being. Thank you for that, especially to Eleni, you sweet human being.
> 
> Sorry to anyone who I gave cause for concern; I promise I'm healthy and also alive still. My life has just been a bit hectic this year - I bit off almost more than I can chew - and it won't stop being like that until mid-November at least. It's not that I've stopped writing this story - in my head it continues expanding nearly daily - but I don't often get a chance to write what I want to. Between life-stuff and nearly losing all my computer data a month ago (complete freak-out, I can tell you, but thankfully it got recovered), it has been a blimmen full year. So, sorry for the long delay, and sorry again that there will be another one between this chapter and the next.
> 
> HOWEVER: Maybe this will make up for it. It's an extra long chapter - more than 4000 words for the more than 4000 views! - and reasonably juicy, so hopefully you can sink your teeth into it. I know I had fun writing it. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> All the love in the world,  
> \- The Plot Ninja
> 
> P.S. PLEASE CHECK THE TAGS, THEY HAVE CHANGED  
> SERIOUSLY, I DON'T WANT TO MENTALLY SCAR ANYONE WHO DOESN'T WANT MENTAL SCARRING!!!

_Slap!_

It feels like a brand searing into my cheek, and the force of it makes me stumble to my left. I clutch my face in shock, trying to put pressure on it to relieve the heat rushing to my face, but Dotty isn’t done with me there. She reaches out and grabs a handful of my hair, dragging me back towards her, and, like a wild cat, scratches her long red-painted nails down my shoulder. It feels like being in the grasp of a particularly nasty eagle, and though I struggle, I can’t get free of that talon tangled in my hair.

Hands wrap themselves around me and try to tug me away, and I yelp as the pulling on my scalp increases; I see that Pauline has grabbed Dotty, and between us Beth is working to disentangle her hand from my hair. My captor is Charlotte, a girl almost a foot shorter than me and so petite in stature that I could easily have broken free; but I allow myself to be lead back from Dotty, hissing out a pained breath when little bunches of my hair stay with her, ripping themselves out of my scalp.

‘What on Earth is going on here?’

An articulate voice breaks through the confusion; Beth and Pauline have been struggling to hold back Dotty in all her rage, but now she stops struggling against them, still breathing heavily from her exertions. She makes no attempt to cover herself, although she wears only lacy underpants; Beth fetches the sheet from a few feet away and tucks it around her to conceal her bare top.

I notice now that we’re not alone; that there are girls and their clients in various states of undress standing in the doorways, most with mouths open in shock. A couple of clients have themselves in hand, making repetitive _slick_ _slick_ _slick_ noises that echo in the otherwise quiet corridor.

Madam Peony strikes an intimidating figure at the best of times, all harsh lines and tight black bun, but I’ve rarely seen her with fire in her eyes like this before; my mouth goes dry as I wait for her to speak.

For a long while, though, she doesn’t; just stands there, her arms crossed and eyes ablaze. When she does move, it’s not to speak. She simply shoots a pointed look at the girls in the doorways, and there’s a flurry of movement of johns being ushered back to bed and doors closing. One or two are enjoying the scene a little too much to go easily, but when they realise the Housemistress’s piercing glare is on them, they decide to submit to the persistent pressure of a feminine hand and the seductive whisper in their ear after all. Pauline and Charlotte, too, return to their clients at Madam Peony’s indication, and after a querying look to the older woman, Beth, too, departs back down the stairs.

Silence reigns for what feels like an eternity. It begins to echo as surely as any noise. I can hear the party continuing downstairs, drunker by degrees than when I left it; someone has started up a football chant, but although it ropes in the voice of every man and every savvy woman in the room, from here it sounds quiet and far away.

‘Dorothy,’ Madam Peony finally says, her voice cold. ‘Speak.’ She’s a woman with a mind for cost-saving; she’s never wasteful, even with her words.

Dotty is still breathing hard, but she swallows and then, in a strangled tone, she begins. ‘Rosaline is… she’s… interfering with my clients.’

Indignant, I quickly snarl ‘I never!’, but Madam Peony shushes me, and looks back to Dotty expectantly.

Darting a look at me, the brunette pulls the sheet closer around her. ‘I don’ know what it is, but there’s somethin’ goin’ on between her and Shelby.’

‘I’ve done nothing, I swear!’ I protest. ‘Why is it suddenly my fault if Dotty’s client isn’t happy?’ Dotty looks like she’s about to attack me again, cursing me with a low, ‘Bitch!’

Madam Peony’s patience makes a slight “ping” as it snaps. ‘Dorothy, get dressed and go home. Rosaline, get downstairs and get back to work. This is petty, and I won’t have it under my roof. The next time I hear of this, _both_ of you will be fired. Now go.’

Dotty obeys immediately, almost running to get back into her room. I don’t see the justice in this decree, however. ‘It’s not me, though!’ I exclaim in frustration, though I keep my voice down so that Dotty doesn’t come back to argue her side and get us both fired. ‘Dotty’s jealous, though of what I’m not sure; and I’ve not done anything!’

Madam Peony stands still while a door opens and a dishevelled client emerges, smiling at him as he passes her by, and waiting to mould it back into a scowl until he’s starting down the stairs, out of view. ‘I don’t think you realise,’ she says, her voice clear despite being so quiet I can only just hear her, ‘but every time he comes in, he looks for you. Subconsciously, perhaps, but he delays downstairs until he sees you, and then he dashes off with Dorothy. Now, I don’t know what your connection is with the Blinder, but it’s there – don’t deny it,’ she snaps as I try to break in to contradict her – ‘it’s there, and I don’t like it. It’s one thing that he comes in for a drink and a shag; but anything more than that… Well, it brings complications into my House. Complications that I don’t need.’ She eyes me warily. ‘You can take him on, you can screw him – hell, if you can convince Dorothy, you can work on him together – but the very second I see problems for the House, you’re gone. You’re a good worker,’ she adds, as if to soften the blow; ‘I like you. But I’m not risking my life and business for you.’ Her usually unruffled composure seems to have ruffled a little. She tucks a strand of black hair back behind her ear to fix this, then turns on heel and stalks off, throwing back over her shoulder: ‘Now get bloody well back to work.’

 

The night drags on; there are plenty of customers, but they seem to mostly be there to celebrate the football win and to drink with pretty girls; one group of men is even kicked out, having been here three hours and clearly having no intention of paying for anything but beer. I almost lure away an attractive black-haired man, short but with wonderfully built arm muscles; but just when I think I have a new client he gets distracted, spotting an old mate in the crowd and going off to tipsily celebrate some more. Drat. He must be drunker than I thought, to get distracted from fucking by football friends.

At half gone three, Madam Peony starts sending girls home as the crowd begins to dwindle, even though it’s not by a huge amount; she, as do we all, know that actual business after this hour will slow as alcohol inhibits certain body functions. There are still a few real customers, and a few attempted customers, but for the most part we keep the alcohol flowing and the doors open merely to keep in good favour with the stragglers, so they won’t go elsewhere for their next frolic. I laze on the lap of a man eagerly telling the story again, to the huddle of other men, of how Murdoch booted the deciding goal in the dying minutes of the game. I’ve treated myself to a couple of whiskeys over the course of the night, not exactly a major binge, but the pleasant warm glow is tingling through my brain, making the glowing orange of the gas lighting suffuse into everything I see. I watch with a half-smile the animated movements of the man’s free right hand, feel the curl of the fingers of his left against my waist. He’s one of the few that scored tickets to the game rather than just listening to the crackling commentary over the radio; he earned his bragging rights in the smush of standing-room-only fans crushed into fenced-off terraces, paying a pound for entry to a sweaty mosh of men, all squinting through the field chicken-wire fencing to see the far-off players on the field and yelling for the ref to get some spectacles for _fook’s_ sake.

Agatha is perched on the armchair across the circle from me, her fingers stroking through the hair of the man sitting in it while his hand rests on her thin leg, thumb absently rubbing little circles on her thigh. Pauline has draped herself over one seated man’s shoulders; the two of them sit a little back from the group, whispering things into one another’s ears. I note with interest that he has surreptitiously taken her ear lobe into his mouth and is gently sucking it; no one but I seem to see her expression change, eyes closing and teeth biting lip to prevent a moan. I look away, but smile a little wider – that doesn’t just look like a client’s caress to me.

I crane my neck to see the clock as another couple of patrons clumsily depart. Four-thirty. The man I’m using as a chair nuzzles into my neck, making me squirm playfully; I have just enough time for one more customer, I suppose. I bite my lip devilishly at him and carefully, oh so carefully, grind my backside into the delicate equipment behind me. With eyes suddenly alight, he growls lowly and murmurs onto my skin. ‘I want you.’

I push myself up and turn to lean over him, allowing my smile to grow foxy –

Then a sudden _BANG!_ has me startled, and I accidentally slip and kneel on the man’s genitals. His face goes an ashen grey colour and wrinkles with a wince so intense his eyebrows almost seem to get sucked into his squinting eyes.

‘I’m so sorry!’ I tell him, but it gets lost in the commotion of bodies around me - people are rushing for the door, men and women alike; others are scrabbling for shelter behind tables and the bar. It’s chaos. I duck down, scanning around to try find the source of the whirlwind of confusion.

Of course, I realise, as I set eyes on the metaphorical eye of the storm. It’s always him.

Now enough people have fled I can see him standing there, inside the entrance just enough that people can squeeze past him, more or less flattening themselves to the wall so as not to touch him. The flow of people is ebbing as the bar empties out; now each person’s footsteps are audible as they move around.

Shelby is not as I’ve seen him before, though. He’s in the same clothes as I saw him in earlier, when he ran from Dotty, but they are dishevelled and twisted; his tie is hanging more like a necklace, or an unused noose. There’s a beer spill down the front of his shirt that has spotted his pants, and his jacket is missing entirely. From this distance it’s hard to tell, but his eyes seem bloodshot and red. One could never say that Mr Shelby is exactly an upstanding citizen whatever state he is in, but in this condition he seems to have developed a particularly visible lean.

I hear the wheeze of the injured man whose lap I just left, as he too heaves himself up and scrambles for the door. This movement seems to draw Shelby’s gaze in our direction, and now the blue eyes lock onto mine, burning as intensely as I’ve ever seen. There’s no safety in hiding behind the armchair anymore, and as he begins to walk towards me I straighten and back away, stopping only once my back hits the ledge of the bar. Shelby closes the distance quickly, leaving just feet between us. I hear a scuffling behind me – and Shelby hears it too. He brings his feet parallel, thumbs his gun’s hammer once more, and without hesitation fires it diagonally down into the floor beside him. ‘Everybody get the _fook_ out!’ he yells to the near-empty room, his accent stronger through the alcohol’s influence. Two men crawl out from behind the bar, gaining their feet and all but sprinting across the room; one collides with another man who had been cowering behind a chair on the other side of the room, stunning them momentarily until they are bodily pushed out the door by one of the girls in her haste to leave.

And now it’s just us. The whore and the gangster. There’s barely one stride’s space between us, and the air feels saturated with the stillness, heavy and unmovable.

It’s hard to read his face. Emotions flit across his gaunt features like the flickering of a flame; Easy to see he’s burning from the inside out, but I can’t even guess the most potent fuel. Anger? Perhaps. Lust, most definitely in the mix. Beyond that I can’t tell, though it clearly runs deeper. If I weren’t rooted to the spot I would cower backwards. That gaze, though; it holds me in its grip, a paralysed fly in this slightly drunken spider’s web, waiting for the final strike. I can see the gun out the corner of my eye, held loosely in his hand but I can still remember the speed at which he had attacked before; my muscles tighten at the memory of the little round bruise on my ribs.

Finally, Mr Shelby speaks; his voice is hoarse and low and strongly accented. ‘How do you do this to me?’ he murmurs.

‘I…’ What am I meant to say? Sorry? Please don’t shoot me? I don’t want to put ideas into his head. Instead I let the sentence hang; the man hasn’t noticed it anyway.

‘You left me,’ he croaks, and now he’s not seeing me at all, talking to the ghost of someone else. ‘You betrayed me. So why do I still…’ His breath hitches, halfway between a hiccup and a sob, and he rubs his forehead with his knuckles, the pale hand still clutching the gun. My eyes have followed the weapon until it’s resting back at his side; so I jump when he moves forward, and my step back leaves me pinned against the bar.

His hand, the one without the gun, is raised. Shakily, gently, he reaches towards me as if to brush a strand of my hair behind his ear.

My heart is beating fast; the seconds seem to stretch out, each holding their own little forever. I feel myself pull away from him, but the solid wood behind me doesn’t budge. ‘Mr Shelby…’

His fingers freeze. They hover close enough to my cheek to feel their warmth. A short exhale, as if I had punched him in the gut, escapes his lips, followed by the rest of the air in his lungs in a long, slow breath out. From this close, I can see the ripple of every line that forms on his forehead as his brows move upwards and then into a furrow, and his eyes close with a pained expression. ‘No,’ he says, turning ever so slightly away. His voice is almost too soft to hear. ‘You… you don’ call me that. Not you.’

I look at him. Really look at him, for the first time. With crumpled clothes and ruffled hair, in this light he looks like he’s just a man. Arguably the most dangerous man in the city – razors in his cap and pistol in his hand; but he looks so vulnerable, almost fragile, like he might crumple inwards like a paper bag with a word or a touch. It nearly breaks my heart.

Hesitantly, I push myself forward, bringing myself up off the bar so that there’s a bare inch between us. I drink in a breath as if it were a shot of Irish courage. Then softly, I raise my hand to his chest, allow my fingers to caress his shirt, and lean my body into his just a little. No pressure, not yet; I’m still half scared he could break under my touch. _You don’t call me that._ What did _she_ call him? That’s who I am to him, after all – the ghost of _her_ , a tangible spectre with blonde hair. I lift my hand higher, turn his head with her fingers, stroke his cheek with her touch.

Those blue eyes open again, aching with want and hope and longing. He’s a man lost for months in a desert. He needs her. Needs me to be her. He hardly seems to be breathing, waiting for a signal, a sign that I will quench his thirst tonight.

I silently promise him I will try.

‘Tommy,’ I whisper.

More breath than noise, but it’s enough.

Relief floods his face. Slipping one hand through my hair and suddenly pulling me close, he presses his lips to mine, so deep and passionate that it steals my breath, and so fierce that, if it weren’t for the firm hand at my lower back, I would lose my balance. Another press forward by the tall man and I am leaning back against the bar again, held there by his body. His thigh slips between mine and up, making me gasp into his mouth, but it gets lost amongst the clash of lips and teeth and tongue.

 I hear the quiet _clunk_ of the gun being placed on the bar top beside me. It makes me stiffen again, the thought of the weapon making my heart race and my blood chill. For a bare hint of a moment I think of snatching the weapon up – then I would be safe, and the gangster could not hurt me – but the thought passes, as the now-freed hand runs down my neck, my shoulder, my breast, making me flush and gasp again. I feel rough callouses against my skin as Shelby’s hand digs itself under the material of my dress’s neckline, and he cups and caresses me expertly, exhaling in pants of his own.

‘Upstairs,’ I manage to gasp out after our lips have met and parted again, putting my hands over his to still him. He answers with another deep kiss which leaves us panting, then looks at me as if the word puzzles him. ‘Upstairs,’ I say again, marvelling at how the silver eyes darken in the space of two syllables, and suddenly I’m pulled up off the bar and into a tight, moving embrace. My heart sinks a little as, with a practised movement, the gangster swipes his gun from the counter and secretes it into his pocket; however, I have little time to think on this as we make our way across the main room’s floor and up the stairs.

His moves are slow, clumsy, but I realise that my own are tipsy, too – my shoulder nicks the doorframe as I guide us into the first room of the long corridor, and it takes my full concentration to turn and close the door behind us, though in the empty brothel I guess it is more out of habit that privacy. I click the door shut gently, then turn around to see Shelby looking at me with as strange an expression as before.

I walk to him and unbutton his shirt, pressing kisses to his bare chest as it is revealed, but the man has the ocean in his moods, and stands stiff like a board while I peel his shirt and undershirt off him.

Suddenly, as it hits the ground, he has pushed me back against the door, looming over me. ‘Why’d you have to leave?’ he demands. ‘Why’d you go?’

‘M- Tommy!’ I correct myself with a slight stutter, but he ignores the squeak and simply presses against me harder.

‘I could give you everything. Could have given you everything. I told you...’ His breathing is heavy in my ear. ‘I told you to stay.’

I can feel his hardness through his trousers, pressing against me at hip height. I reach for it, but he feels me move and grabs my hands, pinning them too, until I’m immobile against the oak. My breathing is ragged, fear and excitement bleeding into one another – I’m too tired, too tipsy, to tell them apart any longer. I feel stubble as he nuzzles into my neck, a deep breath taking in my scent and exhaling it jaggedly. The rumble of his voice so close to me feels like it vibrates through to my bones as he asks, moans, ‘Why didn’ you stay?’

A pause, a catch in my throat, then I get close enough to his ear to whisper. ‘Tommy... I’m here now.’

‘You’re here now.’ The words sink into him like warmth, then he pulls back and kisses me in earnest once more. His hands are a flurry of motion, and they run down my collarbone, my chest, my breasts, my hips; one wraps around behind my back and up my spine, crushing me to him. I moan into his mouth as we devour the taste of one another, then I gasp as his other hand begins to palm my nethers in slow, firm circles. I squirm in his grip, my own fingers clutching at his bare shoulder with my left hand and pushing at his chest with my right, but there is no escape. He abandons my lips to mouth at my jaw line, then my neck, making me almost crumple with pleasure and push up into him as he persists.

When he encounters fabric, he disagrees with it, nearly ripping it from me in his haste to bypass it; I help him to raise it over my head, and let it fall to the ground as he divests me of my lacy brassiere. I fumble with his belt in return, but he ignores it entirely and pushes his trousers straight down his legs, stepping out of his shoes at the same time. Both in just pants now, it feels exhilarating to feel skin against skin, his angles against my softness.

He picks me up like it’s nothing, but I clutch to him as my feet leave the ground; I’m a tall woman, yet he makes it seem like I’m feather-light in his arms as he turns and moves to the foot of the bed. I bounce as he nearly throws me onto it, but then he all but dives onto me to start his onslaught afresh. We’re a tangle of limbs and skin and teeth and tongue, and it’s nothing like how Dotty explained; no gentleness, no restraint. Shelby is breathing hard and wild as we find friction against one another, and I decide to take control. I reach up, give him a push to the side and begin to straddle him –

but no dice, Shelby pushes me back down with almost a snarl. His pants were lost somewhere in the struggle, and now mine go too; I use my foot to remove them from my ankles, then he spreads my legs and plunges into me, deep and fast. I’m wet for it, but certainly not ready, and I lose my breath as I try to adjust to the stretch. The gangster lets out a feral groan into my left ear that sends shivers down my spine, and then he’s thrusting into me, hoarse whispers of ‘Yes, yes’ taking me higher and higher. My fingernails find his back and scratch lines down it, which only seems to encourage him. A high cry escapes me, and it is only then that I realise my moans echo his own. I reach downward, but suddenly his hand is there too, and as he rubs against my node I am lost in the sensation, insensible to everything but the fullness and the pleasure. I spasm against him, but he doesn’t relent, his pace even increasing as he draws nearer to completion himself. Gasps don’t seem to fill my lungs, and I begin to return to reality only to be sent off again by the well-placed pressure in and against me, overwhelming me once more.

Finally, I sense Shelby shake and release too, and he lowers himself down over me with an exhausted, gravelly groan. We stay like that, him still inside me and our limbs intertwined, for what could be minutes or days, until our breathing comes easily and synchronised with each other. I feel his warm breaths against my collar bone, his sweat-beaded head nestled next to my neck. His weight feels good over me; if only I were strong enough to stay like this. But eventually, my chest starts to ache from the pressure of his weight, and when I start to twitch muscles to try and get comfortable he realises our position and pulls out of me, slowly, then rolls off and moves to get up.

‘Tommy,’ I blurt without thinking. ‘Will you stay?’

Silence.

The kind that blankets us thickly, stopping any movement for long, drawn-out seconds.

I begin to curse myself for my moment of weakness – who am I to ask that? – but after another moment of hesitation, Shelby readjusts his position, turns back around and tentatively slides under the covers. I do the same, until he is pressed snugly against my back, one arm resting lightly on my stomach. Out the corner of my eye, I see the tip of his gun poking out of his crumpled trousers just feet away, and my heart beats fast again; but feeling his skin against my back, his arm around me, my anxiety eases up quickly. In a short time, our breathing has synchronised again. I feel safe, and sleepy; and, almost forgetting where we are, I feel myself begin to doze off.

Shelby must think I’m asleep a while later, when he reaches up and brushes a strand of hair away from my face. ‘Just like her,’ he mumbles to himself, incredulity soaking his tone. I feel his chest rise as he draws in a slow deep breath, face inches from my hair, taking in my smell. ‘Just like her,’ he repeats.

Then,

‘I bet you’re danger, too.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are like protein-shakes for stories - they don't take long to make, but it is good stuff and helps build muscle (or plot) more quickly!  
> Much love,  
> \- The Plot Ninja


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